"Bab," he called. She still did not answer. "Bab!" he called again.
In the tense stillness of the room the thick, hurried ticking of the clock upon the mantel beat on her ears like sledge strokes. She did not move. She dared hardly breathe. Beside the door she could hear him as he moved restlessly, one hand on the panels to support him. Then through the woodwork came to her a sigh—a deep and painful inspiration.
"David," she said. "Oh, don't!"
A stifled exclamation came from the hall without. Bab, however, did not open the door.
"Let me in," pleaded David. His voice, in its thickness, she hardly knew. As he spoke he rattled the doorknob.
"You can't come in," Bab said wearily. "I can't see you."
He was silent for a moment. She could hear him move again, shifting on his crutches.
"Where have you been, Bab? All the afternoon I've been hunting you. I tried to get to you first."
To get to her first? She knew at once what he meant.